The Nightmare
by UncleRuckus
Summary: Very short story that insomniacs will be able to relate to


I like awake on the cold stone trough that has been designated as my place of rest. And the thought which passes through my head, as sudden and unexpected as a flash of white lightning, paralyses me with fear.

What if I will not dream this night?

Upon this night - this dusk of destruction, this eve of enmity, these hours of horrid hatred where I crave the world of unreality like a murderer's sweet and swift fatal stab.

It would not matter if I were never to sleep again after this night but here - in my cold and dank cell which has been my confinement for at least the last 5 years of my life - here and now I must, I _must_ fall into a deep and intense repose before the twilight is upon me.

Of course, there are no windows here, therefore I have no sure way of knowing it is nightfall, but yet somehow - _I know_. How, I cannot explain, it is the same way I know that I have been here for five years despite never seeing evidence that time was indeed naturally occurring outside these four walls.

Why have I escaped madness? Why has delirium not drawn me to her realm? I am by no means a man of strength. Why, within the first hour of my confinement I would have given up my dearest friends and family if it were the key to my eluding this damned indentation of isolation.

I know that an hour has passed now, and although my muscles ache, my bones are weary and I have not even the strength to open my eyes to greet the blackness around me, still, I cannot sleep.

Oh how excited I was to awake to that impish voice this morning!

The first voice, the first _sound_ I had heard since my coming here. I thought it a dream at first but of course I do not dream and have not done so now for many years.

I opened my eyes but of course all I could see was the darkness.

" 'Ello matey" it croaked

Of course, I should have been terrified, but, before tonight, fear was something long since gone from me and I should face it with more than just my sense of hearing to make its acquaintance again.

"Who's there?" I asked, unoriginal.

"'Tis I," the impish voice croaked again. Weaselly, it did sound. Tiny and uncouth. "I've been watching you for a while now matey."

"Who are you?" I asked again, suddenly inextricably terrified that the voice would leave me as unexpectedly as it had spoken. "Tell me! Is there any leaving this place?"

"yes sire," the voice replied (and were there any sliver of light in this box I would swear that I'd find the proprietor of the impish voice smiling at me) "tonight, there will be. All you have to do is dream. Dream sire, before the twilight hour is on you and the dream, my lord, shall set you free"

I called out to the voice "What do you mean 'dream'?" Suddenly fear's cold and hard grip shook me with a familiar force and sincerity. "Please, where am I? Who are you? Why am I here?" The voice was gone. Nothing made sense (but why would this surprise me?).

Perhaps I was in Delirium's aloof world yet, but no. I knew the imp spoke the truth. I knew this with the same unexplainable veracity with which I knew the time of day it was despite not having seen the moon or sun for as long as I can remember.

If I dreamt I would be free.

And so I tried to sleep, for I could not dream without sleeping. But despite my efforts to relax into a story-filled slumber I could not fall asleep. I stopped trying, realising of course that the harder I tried to sleep, the less I was likely to, but still as the hours passed by I was as awake as only a man of my unique predicament could be.

As the twilight hour drew closer I became desperate. I began to harm myself in the hopes that I would fall into unconsciousness unnaturally and sleep, per chance to dream. After repeated attempts all I was rewarded with was a trough now wet with my blood and a headache which poked at my tiredness, refusing to allow it to fall into anything other than a state of alertness.

The twilight hour came and I did not fall asleep. Of course I did not dream.

I am forever trapped in this matchbox of misery, this orb of obscurity, this cavity of condemnation.

This nightmare. A world without dreams.


End file.
